


The City That Care Forgot

by nofaceghoul



Series: refurbished vintage hetalia [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Astraphobia, Historical References, Italian Mafia, M/M, Mafia Romano (Hetalia), Organized Crime, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-05 04:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15855870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nofaceghoul/pseuds/nofaceghoul
Summary: Antonio Fernandez Carriedo didn’t seem like the person who would be in Lovino’s line of work. That is, he didn’t seem like someone who could blow a guy away with a shotgun without so much as batting an eye.He didn’t seem like a mafioso.Your standard spamano mafia au set in New Orleans in the late 19th century. Rating will raise as chapters go on. Will add tags as chapters go on (characters, pairings, etc.)





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> another refurbished hetalia fic! i started this originally in 2011 ~~kill me omg~~ and recently found it on an old flashdrive. this shit needs a lot of work but i think it has a solid backbone so i'm fixing it up and posting it.
> 
> among many other things, i changed the name from what it was originally. the new name is a reference to one of New Orleans' nicknames that i liked and thought fit some of the themes of this fic

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo didn’t seem like the person who would be in Lovino’s line of work. That is, he didn’t seem like someone who could blow a guy away with a shotgun without so much as batting an eye.

He didn’t seem like a mafioso.

The first time the young Italian had met him was the night of a particularly important job: a hit. Not a minor hit, either; they were fucking with the big dogs here, and they had to be fucking careful. The target was some important Irish police superintendent or some shit like that. But Lovino knew it was important, and he felt lucky he was even considered to help on the job.

It was a cold October evening and the dark clouds swirled ominously overhead, promising buckets of rain. They had guys everywhere to keep track of this shmuck; if he so much as spit on the sidewalk the mafia would know where and when. This was one of Lovino’s first parts in any major operation. He was freshly eighteen, and excitement thrilled through him as he hung around near Girod street as instructed, knowing the Irish bastard would be coming down that way. He would wait all evening if he had to, not wanting to screw up his -albeit small- part in the hit. He was eager to please, eager to do his best -- fair after all, since anything other than success with such a small but major role would reflect negatively on him, and Lovino really wasn't looking to die because of an ill-timed whistle.

Lovino wasn’t the superstitious type; that’d be his younger brother. But the prickly Italian was alone in the French Quarter, and it did have a particularly bloody history. It was supposedly haunted by the ghost of Jean Lafitte, a notorious French pirate. It wasn’t pirate ghosts Lovino was scared of though; the guy had been French, so he couldn’t have been all that scary anyway. Lovino was scared of the recently dead Marie Laveau. She had been a voodoo priestess, a thing very real in the city of New Orleans. He remembered when she had still been alive; it wasn’t long after he’d come off the boat before she died, but she wasn’t someone you just forgot. But it’s not like she’d scared him or anything. 

Alright, he’d been fucking terrified. 

He and Feliciano had gotten lost, finding themselves in the French Quarter. Being as polite as he could manage, Lovino kept trying to ask people where he might find the Second Municipality, but they all ignored him or gave him dirty looks and kept walking. A scant few acknowledged him, but only to say they didn’t know what he was talking about, sorry. Liars. Even charismatic Feliciano couldn't get anyone to give him the time of day, but that was probably because he had Lovino beside him. They were just two more filthy immigrants that no one wanted to waste their time with. Bitter and alone in this crowd of hostile faces, he accidentally bumped against her then, Marie Laveau, and her arm shot out like a python. For a brittle looking woman she had a vice-like grip. She stared hard at Lovino with milky eyes and he felt suddenly ashamed, as if she could see into his very soul at every terrible thing he’d ever done. He didn’t want to look at her, instead searching the faces of passersby, eyes pleading for someone to get him out of this strange situation, but he was being pointedly ignored now. The sea of people even seemed to part around them, giving a wide berth to the two. Everyone knew Marie Laveau. No one would help him.

Feliciano, useless Feliciano, floundered beside him. "Ahhh excuse me miss, could you please...? Let my brother go...?" he said weakly. Laveau ignored him, didn't look away from Lovino.

She leaned close then, her lips almost touching Lovino’s ear. He shuddered, giving a weak tug at his captured wrist. Laveau's grip didn't budge. “Beware men who bathe in the _Golfe de Gascogne_ ,” she whispered. And then she let go of his wrist, hobbling away as if nothing had happened. Feliciano fretted around him, babbling worriedly, asking if his brother was okay and wow how weird was that, what did she say, what did it mean? Lovino had no fucking idea what she was talking about.

So that’s where he was, in the haunted-ass French Quarter on a dark and ominous night, waiting for some guy to show up so he could kill him. Well…not Lovino directly. But he would help. 

Sort of. 

The young Italian shivered as a few pelts of rain hit his skin, and just then he heard whistling. It was soft, and almost eerie. Hair bristling on the back of his neck, Lovino slowly turned his head towards the sound. Taking a quiet breath, he forced himself to relax. It was him. The bastard who had dared snub Lovino’s _onorata societa_ and affiliate himself with another. It wasn't something that would be allowed to stand. He stepped from the shadows and stared hard at the man meandering towards him, unaware of what was about to happen. He saw Lovino for sure, but big fucking deal. He was a clueless idiot, a man who was only ever supposed to be a pawn. An idiot pawn who, when faced with a bribe, chose poorly. Lovino whistled once, loudly, a piercing signal echoing in the night. His part in the plan was over now and he didn't wanna stick around long. It didn't concern him anymore.

Lovino shivered again when he heard the gunfire only a few blocks to his back a few minutes later. He didn’t feel bad for signaling the others. He didn’t have any remorse for being involved with the mafia. It was what he was born into.

It was a chill October evening and fuck, the combination of rain and wind was not helping at all. Lovino hadn’t brought a jacket, and his thin button-down was not keeping him dry from the rain slowly increasing in frequency.

Pat pat pat

Pat pat pat pat

_Patpatpatpatpatpatpatpatpatpatpatpatpatpat—_

“ _Cazzo_ ,” He cursed to himself, starting to run down the street. A few more shots rang out distantly. He didn’t worry, he had more pressing issues right now. Just as he had thought earlier, it wasn’t so much raining as it was pouring a steady waterfall over his head. Thunder broke and lightning cracked, flicking dangerously across the sky and Lovino screamed, falling to the ground in the middle of the street. _Stupid! Get your ass up!_ He screamed at himself, but it was no use. He was frozen, petrified by the malevolent weather surrounding him. The violently whipping wind seemed to steal the breath from his lungs. No matter how hard he tried Lovino couldn’t seem to get a full lungful of air. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. A mafioso afraid of thunderstorms. It was pathetic. He squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth together. _I’m going to die, I’m going to fucking die here…_

Something grabbed him and he screamed again. It was a person—?

Oh fuck! This is the French Quarter, you idiot! It’s a seedy place at night and you’re alone! _You’re alone, alone,_ Lovino thought dizzily, wrenching away from his assailant’s grip, plopping wetly back onto the ground. _Always alone…_

“Get the fuck away from me!” He screeched.

“I’m trying to help you!” A man whose face Lovino couldn’t see said urgently. He was yelling over the roar of the storm. More gunshots in the distance, further now. Or maybe it just sounded far away because of the storm? But that wasn't right anyway, the hit was supposed to be cut and dry...it should have been over by now. A roll of thunder rumbled and with it Lovino's stomach sunk like a rock. Something went wrong. Another flash of lightning lit up the sky and before the young Italian cringed reflexively he saw the man’s face for just a second. An afterimage of his vibrant green eyes was burned into the back of his skull. “ _Mierda_ …” the man muttered, a curse lost to the storm. He lifted Lovino up from the wet ground again, into his arms. Lovino didn’t struggle against him this time; something about this storm had him so scared his legs felt like jelly. If he couldn’t even run for shelter how could he hope to fight off this strange man? What if he had something to do with the hit going wrong? Had it even gone wrong? He didn't know what was going on, head spinning, he needed to contact someone he needed-- “You’re all alone, aren’t you?”

Another whip of lightning cracked across the sky and Lovino whimpered, burying his face into the man’s chest.

He was alone again.  
\-----------------------------

When Lovino woke up, he took notice of his changed surroundings. No longer was the roar of the storm pounding in his ears. Honey eyes were still closed, and he was warm and dry, for the most part. There was a slight chill in the room cooling his damp skin, wherever he was. There was a thin blanket covering him, and it was then that he noticed that he wasn’t wearing anything. Lovino could no longer feign sleep; his eyes shot open and he sat up quickly, frantically looking around the small room. He reached for the knife in his boot like a reflex, then remembered that he was naked. The weapon was missing.

“Whoa whoa! I’m not going to hurt you.” Lovino looked sharply up at the voice that had spoken; it had to have been the man who picked him up off the street. His green eyes were the only things the Italian recognized. It didn't make him less tense. The man had his hands up as if in surrender, and he eyed Lovino cautiously. “Are you going to relax?” His tone was that of a chastising parent when their child throws a tantrum. Lovino hated it. Now that he could get a good look at him, the man was tall with a nice sort of build, if you were into that kinda thing. Well muscled arms and defined calves. And his thighs, woah. Lovino didn’t doubt he could knock him out with a roundhouse if he really wanted to. He didn't focus on that area of the man's body for long though, gaze quickly moving. He had sun-kissed tan skin and wavy chestnut hair tied back in a short ponytail, and as Lovino had already noted, the green eyes. Overall, the man was gorgeous. It was kind of fucking Lovino up. Back to the point though, he very well could hurt the young Italian but he didn’t have the air of someone who was going to kill. There was no violent intent in him. Lovino slowly nodded, still wary. “Alright. I’m just going to sit down right here, _sí_?” He pointed over to a wooden chair in front of the dilapidated stone fireplace dominating the room and slowly walked over to it, sitting down.

They sat like that in silence for awhile, eyeing each other apprehensively, waiting for the other to make the next move.

“My clothes,” the Italian said finally, narrowing his eyes at the man as he bunched up the thin blanket around him. “Where are they?”

The strange green eyed man seemed to zone back in from a place in his head when he heard Lovino’s voice. “Oh? Your clothes.” He gestured towards the mantle of the fireplace. Calling it a mantle was too grandeur though, actually. It was more like a termite-ridden wooden board nailed into the wall to serve the purpose of a mantle. Lovino stared at it with disdain, noticing his shirt and pants hanging from it. His boots were by the door. “After I pulled you in from the storm we were both soaked. I changed my clothes.” At that moment the man flopped his bangs out of his eyes; his hair was still mostly wet, so Lovino figured he hadn’t been out cold for too long. “And well, I couldn’t just leave you in wet clothes.” He shrugged. “Especially not knowing your condition. Why were you out in the French Quarter at night anyway, _niño_? I haven’t been here long and even I know that’s not safe.”

As he spoke, Lovino became more and more aware of his accent. A Spaniard. “I have a fucking name you know, bastard.” Though he still didn’t like the situation he’d gotten himself into, he felt more comfortable knowing he was with a fellow immigrant. Natural born Americans never did treat him too kindly since he was Italian. They always assumed he was committing crimes or had something to do with the mafia. Though he had…and he was…but that was besides the point!

The Spaniard’s green eyes glowed amusedly. There was a ghost of a smile on his face. “Oh? How rude of me. I’m called Antonio. What is your name, _mi querido_?”

Lovino’s face flushed red angrily. “D-Don’t go giving me pet names, you bastard! My name is Lovino! Remember it!” he spat. This guy didn’t make any fucking sense. The more hurled insults at him the more he seemed to smile. It was infuriating.

“Ah your face…it's like a little _tomate_ , huh. It’s too bad you’re not fond of pet names because that one is perfect for you." He huffed a laugh from his nose, looking pleased with himself. "But ok then Lovino, I’ll let you get dressed. Your clothes should be dry now.” He smiled again and stood, walking over to the door. The sputtering Italian expected him to leave, but instead he just turned around in front of the door. Lovino stared at him.

“Aren’t you going to leave?” he said bluntly.

“ _Lo siento_...don’t take offense to this Lovi, but you seem like a pretty jumpy person, and I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt by having you attack me with the knife in your boot.” Lovino’s heart stopped. He went through his things, went so far as to check his boots for weapons. The bastard probably already knew who he was too, was probably just toying with him right now. Lovino’s threat alarm shot up immediately. Who _was_ this guy? Fuck, he was dead. He was so dead and his brother didn’t even know where he was. The man turned to him and smiled that infuriating smile again. Antonio. “So I’m going to stay right here, and then you’re going to tell me why you were in the French Quarter last night, ok?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> noo idea when i'm gonna have time to rehash chapter two, but be on the lookout i guess?
> 
> if you're here and reading this in 2018 thanks omg. i'm not really expecting much traction on this, it's more a personal project and labor of love than anything else.
> 
> again, thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Overhauling this thing has been a nightmare bc the original is written entirely in first person. The chapters aren't too long though so it's going pretty quickly.
> 
> I'm greedy when it comes to fic praise so i pushed this out fast but don't expect it to continue at this pace

Antonio folded his hands in his lap. “Hm. I see. You are Italian, then?”

Lovino had unwillingly divulged what he knew to the Spaniard as he had gotten dressed. His clothes now smelled slightly of charred wood and his nose wrinkled up in distaste. “Yeah. So?”

Antonio was silent for a few seconds. “How did you get involved with the mafia?” he finally asked.

This guy was confusing. He didn’t seem bothered at all that Lovino was a mafioso, and he’d let the young Italian keep his weapons, even though he had known he’d had them all along…it was as though he thought Lovino was no threat to him. How insulting. Lovino narrowed his eyes. “…I came here by boat from Italy. The plan was to go to New York, but we got conned. We were told New Orleans was only an hour away by stagecoach.” Lovino smiled bitterly. “I should have taken a better look at American geography, huh? Then maybe we wouldn’t be in this hellhole.” To have gotten himself stuck in this situation was one thing, but to have brought Feliciano with him and have him suffer the consequences too…Lovino felt guilty about it. They were on their own now and what was the first thing Lovino did as acting decision maker? Get them stuck thousands of miles from where they had planned to go. “Anyway, we showed up and were taken in by one of the families here.” Lovino paused. Should he tell Antonio that he was a Vargas? That the only reason Feliciano and Lovino were taken in so easily was because they came from a prestigious mafia family back in the Old Country? He wondered if Antonio would even know the significance. “I didn’t know they had them here like in Italy.”

Antonio nodded grimly, looking sympathetic. “Sounds similar to what happened to me. I, too, wished to go to New York. Though this place isn’t so bad either. I’ve managed to carve out my own little piece of this world here.” Looking around the dirty two room hovel they were currently in made Lovino raise his eyebrows at the other. Antonio paused and his green eyes slid to focus on the young Italian, who shivered inwardly. “You keep saying ‘we’. Who are you here with?”

Lovino paled, looking away. Shit. He was so used to referring to both himself and his brother…using ‘we’ to describe anything he did when his brother was around…especially considering him and his brother were always a package deal in his grandfather's eyes. It was either Feliciano by himself or the both of them. Lovino never really had a separate identity from his brother. And now he’d put him in danger. What if the Spaniard was a member of a rival family? _Fuck_ he’d really screwed up this time. “My brother…he should be at home. I told him to stay home until I got there.”

Lovino stood suddenly, and Antonio stood with him. The Italian glared at him challengingly. “Alright bastard, I told you what I was doing in the French Quarter and more than you really needed to know. My little brother is worried about me and I need to see if he’s alright, so can I go?”

Antonio smirked, putting his hands in his pockets and looking at the ground for a second. “You killed that police officer?”

Lovino stepped forward, and Antonio stepped back towards the door. “No, and even if I did I wouldn’t tell _you_. And of course I haven’t heard if the job was done correctly because of your stupid ass!” Lovino took another step forward, and the Spaniard took another step back.

Antonio chuckled. “If it wasn’t for my ‘stupid ass’, you would still be out in the French Quarter. And who knows what would have happened to you?” He took a predatory step forward and Lovino took an uncertain step backwards. “A lot goes on in the French Quarter at night. Someone with quite worse intentions than I could have found you, Lovi.” He had a feral glint in his green eyes and Lovino took another step backwards, towards the wall. Antonio took another step forward and he was almost on top of the other. Lovino had hit the wall; there was nowhere to go. “You could have been taken.” Antonio traced a finger down Lovino’s cheek and he closed his eyes, jaw ridged, fists clenched at his sides. There was nowhere to go. “Sold into prostitution. A pretty boy like you? You wouldn’t last long there alone…”

“Shut up…” he whispered.

Antonio huffed a laugh again, though this time it was darker. Predatory. Lovino felt his breath against his ear. There was nowhere to go. “Tell me Lovino…how old are you?”

“Eighteen,” Lovino answered. As if some sort of spell was broken, his eyes shot open and he shoved the Spanish man away, throwing out his leg to trip him and in one quick motion pulled his knife out from his boot. The one Antonio had known he’d had. The one he had cockily let the young Italian keep on him. Lovino pressed it threateningly against the bewildered man’s throat. “Now let me fucking leave.”  
\------------------------------------

They were in the Spanish Quarter, and it was early morning. The sun was just barely peeking up beyond the horizon, throwing the sky into washes of soft bluish greys and pale pinks. The Spanish bastard had decided to tag along and walk Lovino home. What a fucking gentleman.

“I don’t want you here, you know,” the young Italian grated, shooting him an irritated look.

Antonio was smiling that stupid grin of his. “I think you do, Lovi. I think you crave company.”

“Not yours, fuckhead! And don’t call me Lovi; show some respect!”

Antonio laughed easily, almost condescending really, and threw an arm around Lovino’s shoulder. “Respect? To a _niño_ like you? Just eighteen,” he cooed.

Lovino knocked his arm away. “I could have you killed you know. Just a word, bastard. That’s all it would take.”

The Spaniard chuckled to himself, like he thought the threat was funny. Like this whole thing was amusing to him. Like prodding the short fuse of a mafioso was a game. “I highly doubt that, _mi tomate_.”

When Lovino turned to face him sharply he was grinning widely again, his enchanting green eyes sparkling like the ocean on a calm breezy day. The prickly Italian’s face turned red against his volition. He could feel the heat in his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Again with the fucking pet names! Stupid bastard, you’ve signed your death warrant. I hope you’re happy.” He turned away from Antonio and kept walking down the cobbled street, this time at a faster pace. Unfortunately for Lovino, the other man followed.

“If you make such sudden and violent judgments, I hope you are prepared to carry them out yourself,” he hummed. “And call me Antonio, Lovi. We know each other better than to degrade each other with vile language, _sí_?”

Lovino bit the inside of his cheek hard at hearing another little nickname. It seemed he would never get him to stop using them, no matter how many times he threatened him. Lovino had given up trying, because at this point it hardly mattered. He was going to part ways with Antonio and never see him again. “Hardly, idiot. I don’t even know how old you are,” he grumbled. They were nearing the Second Municipality.

“Twenty-six.”

Lovino glanced at him over his shoulder. “What?”

“You said you didn’t know how old I am. I’m twenty-six.” Antonio had his hands casually in his pockets, looking up at the slow sunrise seemingly without a care in the world. Lovino didn’t know why, but he’d seemed…younger. Maybe it was the fact that he acted like such an empty headed idiot.

He stopped walking then, and Antonio stopped as well, turning to face the younger man quizzically. Lovino pointed back in the direction they had come. “Go. This game has been fun, but it’s over. Go home.”

Antonio seemed confused. “But Lovino, we haven’t reached your home yet.”

The Italian sighed, rolling honey eyes. “Idiot. Do you really think I’d let you see where I live so you can stalk me? Here is far enough.” He turned his back on the Spanish man. “Go back to your dirty hovel.”

With silence behind him, Lovino thought Antonio had taken the hint. He sighed with relief and started walking.

“You do know I could just follow you home from a distance?” Lovino stopped again, grating his teeth. That absolute bastard. “Wouldn’t you rather know where I am instead of wondering?”

Lovino turned to face him. That grin in place, as always. Quietly triumphant this time. The resigned Italian narrowed his eyes venomously, wanting to yell, scream, curse at him. But Antonio seemed like a very persistent stray dog; no matter how much Lovino mistreated him, tried to chase him away, it didn’t matter because he’d already made the mistake of feeding him once. He’d given the incomprehensible Spaniard an inch and he’d taken the whole goddamn mile to his home. Lovino sighed heavily, turned around, and kept walking. Antonio followed. Lovino said nothing.

The Second Municipality was a rather nice part of town with a lot of the newer buildings and homes in New Orleans. A lot of WASPs lived there. White Anglo-Saxon Protestants. They didn’t take too kindly to the fact that Lovino and Feliciano were living in their nice neighborhood, what with their accented English and ‘pagan’ Catholic ways.

The only reason the Italian brothers lived in such a nice part of New Orleans and not a shady place like the French Quarter or worse, the Third Municipality, was because Lovino’s boss had pulled some strings and set them up in a nice spot. That fact was also what kept their hostile neighbors from trashing their house or trying to throw them out. They feared their mafia connections, just like Lovino’s boss did. He didn’t really care about him and Feliciano; it was the name. Vargas. He feared their grandfather. Oceans away in Italy and the man who ran practically half of the crime syndicate in New Orleans feared their grandfather, or respected him, or owed him a favor, whatever. Lovino never forgot that that was what got them things. Their name was what kept them alive.

Antonio whistled lowly when he saw the house. It wasn’t nearly as grandeur as the rest of the places around, but Lovino didn’t care much about that. Antonio seemed to be impressed; it was definitely a few steps up from his hole-in-the-ground in the Spanish Quarter. “You live in a nice place for not having been here for very long.” Antonio turned to look at Lovino curiously. “Who are you?”

Lovino thought it was funny that he would say that, echoing his own thoughts from earlier. He gave the Spaniard a smirk instead. “Since we’re never going to see each other again, I don’t think that’s really important.”

“Oh _fratello_! I was so worried; I thought something terrible had happened!” Feliciano burst out of the house and ran towards them, hugging Lovino tightly. There were tear tracks staining his cheeks and the older brother felt his heart break just the smallest bit. Damn the Spanish bastard for holding him up and causing Feliciano more grief than was needed.

Lovino hesitantly put a hand on his back, an attempt at comfort. He rubbed Feliciano’s back soothingly while he waited for him to calm down, all the while glaring daggers at Antonio, who still hadn’t left.

When he finally calmed down and let go, the first thing he noticed was Antonio. The younger Italian’s face brightened. “Oh, I feel rude! Did you bring Lovino home?” Before the bastard could even open his mouth, Feliciano had thrown his arms around him. “ _Grazie grazie grazie_!”

He kissed both of the bastard’s cheeks and irrational anger flared within Lovino. Antonio just laughed and nudged him away softly, having the gall to look a little bashful. Feli pulled away and there was a happy smile on his face, just like always. Like it was supposed to be. “ _Sí_ , I suppose.” Antonio was still smiling, but his cheeks were tinted an embarrassed pink. Lovino narrowed his eyes at those pink cheeks and let out a huff. It looked like another jackass had fallen for Feliciano’s charms.

“Well thank you!” Feliciano beamed, genuinely grateful. He had no idea that it was Antonio’s fault he’d been delayed so many hours in the first place. The bastard didn’t deserve any praise. “I’m Feliciano Veneziano Vargas.” He stuck his hand out. “Lovino’s brother. Pleased to meet you! Would you like to stay for lunch? I’m making pasta!”

Antonio’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he grinned, turning his gaze back to Lovino. “I would love to, Feliciano. As long as it is alright with your brother…?” The now uneasy Italian didn’t like the knowing look in his green eyes. He knew. But how?

“No,” He said abruptly.

“But _fratello_ —“

“No, Feli. We can’t have guests today. I have business to take care of.”

Feliciano’s face fell. He knew what his brother meant when he said that. He smiled at Antonio apologetically. “Oh. _Mi dispiace_. Perhaps another time, then?”

Antonio smiled. “That sounds great. What do you think, Lovi?” Once again he turned that infuriating smile to Lovino. Now too knowing. Fuck.

“I think I’d love nothing more than to never see your face again.”

“ _Fratello_ —!”

“Go in the damn house, Feliciano!” Lovino snapped. His brother flinched, staring with a hurt expression at the other for a few seconds. He muttered another apology to Antonio and sauntered back into the house.

“That wasn’t necessary, Lovi.”

When Lovino turned to look at Antonio, he had a disapproving look on his face. Good, the Italian thought. No more of his annoying smiles.

“I don’t want to see you ever again.”

Antonio sighed, and a small coquettish smile played on his lips. “Is that an order direct from a Vargas?”

Lovino’s breath caught. His eyes narrowed. “Yes. If that’s what it takes to keep you away from me and my brother.”

Antonio just stared at him for a moment with that smug, knowing smile. Regarding him. Then he turned and walked away. “I’ll try, Lovino Vargas, but I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other from now on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've ended up doing more research for this fic than i even did back in the day which is RIDICULOUS because i was reading a whole ass book focusing on this time period and mafia shit in New Orleans at the time of originally writing this in 2011. i remember bits but i've been brushing up on stuff just bc it's been so long and also i think there were holes in my research even then
> 
> i've taken some liberties with the way Romano curses though, as you can probably tell lmao. the time period is like? 1890s is what i'm working with, i haven't pinned down an actual date yet but it's right at the turn of the century
> 
> stay tuuuuned


	3. Chapter 3

Lovino slammed the door shut and glared at Feliciano’s back. “You just had to go and open your stupid mouth, didn’t you?”

Feli turned from the vegetables he was chopping at the counter and frowned thoughtfully at the other. “What? What are you talking about, _fratello_?”

Lovino gritted his teeth. “Back there! With the Spaniard!” He spat, jabbing his finger at the front door.

Feliciano only looked more confused, fine brows furrowed. “I-I was only being hospitable, Lovino. He brought you home and—“

“You just going to fucking tell everyone our name, Feli?” Lovino got straight to the point, crossing his arms. “I didn’t know that guy, you know that right? He could have been with the Provenzanos!” His younger brother paled at the mention of the rival family. “Do you have any fucking idea what you’ve just done?!” Feliciano opened his mouth to respond and Lovino could already see the apology on his face. Though he really had messed up, the older of the two couldn’t help feeling a little guilty for snapping so harshly at his brother. He barely got one syllable out before Lovino cut him off and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I really…don’t wanna hear it, okay? Just fucking use your head next time.” He walked past Feliciano out of the kitchen then, heading up to his room. It had been a long night and a taxing morning and Lovino could really use some sleep. Sleep where he wasn’t on a shitty, damp mattress being interrogated by a stupid (kind of scary) Spaniard.

Antonio…

Flopping back into bed, Lovino couldn’t help but think back on the strange man. Seemingly harmless and teasing one second, then unpredictable the next. And unpredictable was dangerous. Though Lovino wasn’t particularly high up in the family ranking among the Matrangas considering he was a newer member, he’d never seen or heard of a man like Antonio in any underground crime rings.

There was still a lot that Lovino didn’t know however, information he wasn't privy to. His name had pushed him quickly ahead in the ranks for sure, but it could only take him so far when he was still so scrappy and inexperienced. But that was fine. He’d been hoisted halfway up the ladder as is, enough that he'd secured a stable livelihood for him and Feli. But after this...what would he do? Would there ever be any getting out? This kind of life wasn't something Lovino wanted. Leaving Italy, running away with Feliciano…he was supposed to be away from all of this. They both were.

He immediately hit the breaks on this train of thought. He couldn’t think about this, it would just stress him out. A nap, now that sounded good. Lovino let himself relax into the mattress, closing heavy eyelids. When he woke up he’d feel better, and he wouldn’t apologize to Feliciano but he would help him clean up in the kitchen, and everything would be fine. He wouldn’t think any harder about how he was living.

\----- 

Lovino woke up to a bang and shouts downstairs. He was disoriented for only a minute, until there was very clearly a panicked voice he recognized.

“Lovino! Lovino help _per favore aiuto aiuto!_ ”

“Shut up you stupid dago!”

“Sir there must be another one in the house!”

“ _Fratello, tu fuggi!_ ”

Feliciano’s voice sounded terrified and desperate, cracking as he shouted as loud as he could for his brother to help him, to run from whatever was going on downstairs. Whatever he was currently in the middle of. Lovino’s blood ran cold and despite being sluggish from sleep he bolted out of bed, charging downstairs to follow his brother's pleading shouts. Feliciano was in the kitchen desperately trying his best to get away from a police officer that was trying to handcuff him. 

He didn't even have time to think. “Get away from my brother!” Lovino screamed, tackling the officer that was currently struggling to subdue Feliciano. The man shouted something but Lovino couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of his heart in his ears, the adrenaline sending him into a frenzy. He just needed Feliciano to be safe.

Grappling with the police officer, Lovino was suddenly jerked sharply back and slammed against the wall, rattling pots and pans. Feliciano screamed.

Right, he'd heard more than two voices originally. There were two more officers now, one of them with his forearm pinned against Lovino’s neck to keep him in place while the other cop handcuffed him. Lovino gnashed his teeth, struggling as much as he could muster but after getting his brain rattled around on top of being exhausted from the events of the night before, there wasn’t much energy left in him. He sagged against the wall, watching helplessly as the other officer finally managed to handcuff Feliciano. All the fight went out of his younger brother once he saw they had Lovino.

After that it went quickly. The officers searched the rest of the house to make sure they were all there was, and then Lovino and Feliciano were led out to a police coach, tossed carelessly into the back while the neighbors stared at the spectacle from their porches. Lovino’s face burned in shame. What was this? What the fuck was this all about?

Feliciano was sobbing as the coach pulled away from their house, big wet tears rolling down his cheeks like a child. “ _M-Mi dispiace f-f-fratello_ ,” he said softly between sobs, and Lovino’s heart broke. He thought this was his fault.

He leaned against his brother, the best he could do when his arms were cuffed behind his back. “Hey, I’m not mad. Feli it’s okay. Feli look at me.” Feliciano sniffled, turning to look at his older brother. Lovino smiled. “It’s gonna be okay. Nothing’s gonna happen, we didn’t do anything wrong.”

Feliciano blinked wet eyes, taking a moment to collect himself. He swallowed. “Are you sure?” he hiccupped.

Lovino nodded. “Of course. We’ll be home in time for dinner.” He hoped Feliciano couldn’t hear his heart pounding anxiously in his chest. “I’ll even make it tonight.”

Feliciano’s brows raised. “But it’s my turn tonight.” The surprise of Lovino offering to make dinner on a night when he wasn’t supposed to completely took his younger brother off guard and his mind off their situation, which is what Lovino had hoped.

Lovino bumped his shoulder with his. “Don’t pretend like you’re not glad, I know how much you like my gnocchis.” He was proud of himself for keeping the crack from his voice.

Feliciano brightened then. “You’re gonna make gnocchis?”

Lovino smiled, though his heart wasn’t really in it. “Yeah.”

The coach stopped abruptly and the door was thrown open. A cop impatiently pulled Feliciano out, causing a yelp to come from the younger Italian. Lovino shuffled out quickly, because it didn’t seem like they were waiting for him before dragging Feliciano away. His anxiety spiked. “Where are you taking him?” he fought to keep his voice even. Feliciano looked back, panic in his marmalade eyes again. “W-We’re together, why are you taking him away?!”

“Everyone is to be questioned individually,” one of the remaining officers answered him gruffly, grabbing him by the fabric at his shoulder and tugging him along. Lovino stumbled. “You’ll probably see him after this is all through with.”

Lovino couldn’t breathe. It was then he noticed that there were other people, men babbling in frightened Italian at officers leading them to the precinct.There were even some boys younger than Lovino and even Feliciano, he noted with alarm. Lovino was led past an Italian boy who could have been no older than thirteen who was crying for his mother.

He didn’t have time to linger with disbelief on the young teen, as he was shoved into a small room then. There were already two officers waiting for him, and they looked up when Lovino stumbled into the room. The cop who had led him here just shut the door without a word. Presumably he was off to go snatch more Italians off the streets and from their homes.

“Alright,” one of the officers said calmly, “start talking.” He gestured at the empty seat at the table in front of him. Lovino slowly shuffled over, eyes not moving from the two cops. He plopped down unceremoniously.

“…I don’t know anything,” he said, testing the words in the air. Think, Lovino. They must know about last night, this must be about that. Something must have gone wrong after all. The cops knew one of the Italian mafia families was responsible. Lovino thought back to the sobbing boy in the lobby. The cops didn’t really know who exactly was responsible. They were interrogating every Italian they could get their hands on.

The other cop was pacing, occasionally glancing at Lovino murderously and muttering bigotry. Lovino kept his mouth shut; usually he would start insulting the man right back, hot headed and enraged, but Lovino was surprisingly levelheaded right now. He really didn’t want to die.

“Look, just tell us what we want to know, alright? No need to be afraid if you’re not guilty.” The cop across from him smiled, but his eyes were tired. Lovino got the feeling he’d been interrogating people since the police chief’s body hit the ground last night. “Let’s just streamline this. Where were you last night?”

“In the home I was just dragged out of,” Lovino groused. The pacing cop grumbled poisonously, shooting the handcuffed Italian a violent look for daring to sound even a little inconvenienced.

“Is there anyone who can corroborate that statement?”

Lovino hesitated then. Feliciano would know to cover for him, right? Did he want to even bring him into this? He remembered the boy crying outside again and it just made him think of Feli sobbing in the back of the police coach. He was already involved. “…my brother.”

“Anyone else?” The cop sounded bored and a little impatient, like Lovino’s answer wasn’t good enough and he should have known that.

He gritted his teeth. “Look I told you already, I was at home last night and I don’t know anything!” He had to lie. If he told the truth, he would surely be killed. Lovino didn’t know exactly the scale of this mass interrogation, but he had a feeling these cops would turn a blind eye if a few Italians ended up dead by the end of it whether they were responsible or not. _‘You’ll probably see him after this is all through with’_ echoed in the anxious Italian’s head. He had to get through this. He had to get Feliciano out of here.

But how?

The pacing officer snorted laughter, slamming his hands onto the table. The other officer didn’t even flinch. Lovino jumped, inwardly cursing his skittishness. “Please, you’re all the same! You’re all lying, you know who did it!”

Rage broiled within Lovino at the statement. The cuffs confining his arms behind his back chaffed his wrists, rubbing them raw. “You think we all know each other or some shit? I don’t even know my neighbors you stupid fuck, I’m expected to keep up with every Italian in New Orleans? Do you think we’ve got some hivemind mental link? Sorry, we’re not like you potato-eating pot-lickers.” Oh he was dead.

The officer paled drastically, and the air in the room changed. The sudden silence deafened Lovino, crashing against his eardrums like silent cymbals. The officer got right up in his face. If Lovino’s arms hadn’t been cuffed behind his back, he would have punched the stupid cop. “You are never seeing the light of day again you dago piece of shit,” he hissed, triumph on his fat, mustached face.

Lovino couldn’t help it. He spit in the cop’s eye and the man cried out in murderous rage. He lunged over the table at the Italian and the other cop held him back.

“Get ahold of yourself, McCreedy!” he shouted with some effort at holding his partner back. “I have a feeling this one knows something!”

Lovino was trapped in a chair with his arms tied behind his back (literally), and he was the one with the triumphant, shit-eating grin now.

The fat, mustached cop had calmed down and went back to glaring murderously at Lovino. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face, going back to pacing and muttering more violent curses now. The other cop sighed and sat back down across from the Italian, a serious look on his face. “Alright then, Mr.…?” Lovino didn’t fill in his sentence and he frowned. “Listen, we can’t help you if you don’t cooperate. Won’t you cooperate?”

Lovino rolled his eyes. “I didn’t need any help before you potato bastards bothered me.”

The pacing cop twitched at his insult, but didn’t say anything. The sitting one frowned further. “Well, that’s alright then.” He turned to the pacing cop. “McCreedy, get this dago’s identification, would you? It should be somewhere in the file room.” McCreedy glowered and left the room. The other cop turned back to Lovino and folded his hands across the table. “Ok listen kid, some not-so-nice things are going on because of your people, you understand that?”

“You have no proof,” Lovino growled, narrowing his eyes, trying to look as menacing as he could.

The cop raised a bushy orange brow. “Son…who ever said we needed any?”

Lovino’s eyes widened in disbelief; he opened his mouth to unleash a torrent of curses and insults at the man, but then the other cop, McCreedy, came back in and his wide grin stole the Italian’s words.

“We sure did catch ourselves a great white today, Morris,” he said, handing a thin file to the other cop, Morris. All he had to do was look at the tab that showed Lovino’s name. He glanced back up at him gravely and stood from his chair.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

The two started muttering to each other and Lovino strained to hear them. They were talking about him like some sort of prized animal they had caught while hunting. Anger flared within him. It was…degrading.

“Fetch quite the price…”

“…don’t know who you’re dealing with…”

“Provenzanos…”

Lovino’s olive skin paled.

Son of a fucking bitch.

These were dirty cops, getting money on the side by helping out the mafia, and wouldn’t it be Lovino’s luck that they were with the Provenzanos… _goodbye, Feli. Though by the end of this massacre it probably won’t be a long goodbye._ Lovino closed his eyes and started muttering a quick prayer. “ _Ave o Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore è con te. Tu sei benedetta fra le donne e benedetto_ …”

McCreedy heard and whirled in the hunched Italian’s direction as if offended by the words. “Hey you! Stop with that pagan shite!” Lovino ignored him and kept praying. “Why you—“

“McCreedy, stop it!” the other, Morris, hissed. “I doubt the Provenzanos would want damaged goods.”

McCreedy stared hard at the muttering Italian, his fat fist white knuckled. He growled. “Fine. I’ll just go call them then.” Lovino heard him stomp away and the door slammed. He was left in the strained silence of the other cop.

It was awhile after Lovino had finished his prayer before anyone came back; he had his eyes closed and his head resting on the table. He was pretty sure the cop across from him had started to doze off too when the door finally opened again.

“So sorry for the delay—“

“Oh no it’s perfectly fine. We expected we might hear from someone about them after the…unfortunate passing of the Chief.”

And Lovino thought his day couldn’t get any worse.

“He’s over here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you can believe it, before i overhauled this chapter the vibe of America Sucks And So Does Our Justice System was even more of a blatant brick over the head. 15 year old me was on to somethin
> 
> also, so dago is an antiquated offensive word against Italians/Spanish/Portuguese-speaking people. i looked into it to make sure it wasn't still a thing cuz i don't really wanna be throwing around slurs even if it's a fictional asshole who's using em, but i dunno, i've personally never heard it out and about in life? i didn't even know about it until i read a book about mobs in the 19th century so idk, if anyone's got feedback on that like 'hey dude actually yeah that's still a thing cut that shit out' then if i find it in later chapters that'll just be somethin i edit out.
> 
> i cut, chopped, and diced this chapter up soo much in comparison to the previous two. where it ends isn't even where it ends in the original, but i'm mean and love cliffhangers >:)
> 
> will Antonio save Lovino and Feli from the clutches of the Provenzanos? find out on the next episode of Dragon Ball Z


End file.
